


No More Springs

by ukrainianironbelly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Next Generation, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Next Generation, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukrainianironbelly/pseuds/ukrainianironbelly
Summary: Albus is not looking forward to sixth year - he has no friends, no OWLs, and a permanent ache in his heart. Sixth year can’t be worse than fifth year, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better, either. However, when quiet, ink-spattered, bespectacled Scorpius Malfoy becomes his tutor, things start to change.





	1. One

The hearts of trees

are serially displaced

pressed annually

outward to a ring.

They aren’t really

what we mean

by hearts, they so

easily acquiesce,

willing to thin and

stretch around some

upstart green. A

real heart does not

give way to spring.

A heart is true.

I say no more springs

without you.

 

_ Tree Heart/True Heart _ , Kay Ryan

 

-x-

  
  


Al and his family slide into Platform 9 ¾ as the scarlet locomotive gives a piercing whistle, and billowing steam envelops the station. Fifteen minutes to spare. “I miss it,” sighs James, looking morosely at the train. “Wish I could get on the train.”

 

“You’ll see it every Sunday, James!” Ginny rolls her eyes, grinning, and automatically sticks a hand out to ruffle James’ hair. James ducks, but doesn’t manage to escape. “Muuuuuuum!” 

 

“What’d your mum do this time, James?” Ron, Hermione, Rose, and Hugo have just walked through the barrier. Al looks away, and hangs back a bit.

 

“Ready for sixth year, Al?,” Lily asks quietly, sliding her arm through his. His little sister has joined him, and is looking at him, all worried big brown eyes.

 

Al takes a deep breath and looks at the train. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he answers, with uncharacteristic candor. This entire summer, he hasn’t addressed the looming prospect of sixth year - of being back at Hogwarts. He has made his best effort to avoid thinking about it, quite honestly. It hasn’t been difficult - he’s been at Rose’s house the entire summer, as per Weasley family tradition, along with Lily (James just started his Healer training at St. Mungo’s), and it’s been a blur of relatives trooping in and out, endless Quidditch games, and lazy days in Diagon Alley. He’s almost managed to push out of his head all the shitty things that happened last year, and he's even managed to avoid Rose.

 

Lily grips his hand tighter, sympathetically. “I’ll be around, Al,” she reassures him.

 

“Al?” His mum is beckoning him. “Come on, time to climb on!” 

 

Al is feeling an awkward, stupid prickling behind his eyes at Lily’s words, and welcomes the opportunity to duck his head and drag his trunk into a compartment, followed by his sister and Rose and Hugo. Rose immediately disappears off to the Prefects’ compartment (“These things run in families, you know!” her dad had announced proudly when she got her letter, and Harry, Ginny, and Hermione had snorted simultaneously), and Albus buries his head in his arms, pretending to go to sleep. After a gentle “Exploding Snap, Al?”, Hugo and Lily are tactful enough to start chatting with each other about their upcoming fourth year.

 

_ Three OWLs.  _

 

Three fucking OWLs. His insides churn as he remembers his report card: an A in Charms, an A in Care of Magical Creatures (and only because their exam was about Bowtruckles), and somehow, an E in Potions. He failed everything else - Arithmancy, Astronomy, Transfiguration...DADA. He failed his dad’s class. The memory of James’ astonished face when he snatched the parchment from his hand still makes Al’s stomach knot up.

 

With these OWLs, Al has no career prospects. 

 

All because of a shitty boy. Al has possibly ruined his future for a boy. A memory of Eustace’s smug, handsome face flickers in his head: his weak-chinned, astonished look the moment Al caught him... _ well _ . He angrily pushes the image out, his stomach roiling a bit. 

 

Time to focus his mind on other things. Happier things. He starts watching the game of Exploding Snap Lily and Hugo have eventually started without him. Lily’s eyebrows are already singed, and she and Hugo are rolling around in mirth, throwing cards down speedily. He’s happy to be back on the gently rumbling Hogwarts Express. He doesn’t get to go every year, seeing as they live in Hogsmeade and he could just walk to Hogwarts on September 1st - however, he’s usually at 17, Wimsick Alley (the Weasley-Grangers’ house) in London for the summer, and his dad is a maudlin fool who loves sending his kids off on the Hogwarts Express every year (and then seeing them seven hours later at the Welcoming Feast).

 

Al smiles despite himself. They’ve been good this summer, his mum and dad. His dad’s usually asked on Auror missions in the summer, which he inevitably accepts out of guilt over quitting, and his mum keeps travelling to cover Quidditch matches all over the British Isles, which is why the kids are usually left with Uncle Ron, but they’ve been practically living at Wimsick Alley this summer. Ginny has played endless games of pickup Quidditch with them, and Harry has taken them to Florean Fortescue’s nearly every other day, much to his wife’s consternation (“I love ice cream as much as the next witch, Harry, but  _ every day _ ?!”).

 

They’ve raised the question of his OWLs quite often, though, trying to insert it into casual conversation. “But why, Al?,” has been their refrain. It must have surprised them - Al’s always been good at school. Somehow, Al found that he could not tell them. Although they know he is gay, he found that he did not have the words to explain everything that had happened last year. He needn't have worried long, though. Two weeks before school started, he had come down to the living room to find his mum, dad, Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, and Rose staring at him guiltily.

 

“What?,” he had asked, somehow already knowing the answer.

 

His dad had looked suspiciously bright-eyed, emotional as usual, and his mum had gotten up and wrapped him, unwilling, in a hug.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ , Rose?!,” he had sworn loudly, and the fact that his mum didn't Scourgify his mouth at that moment confirmed his suspicion.

 

“I had to tell them, Al! You can't keep what happened secret forever!”

 

“I'm not trying to keep it secret! I think the whole of Hogwarts knows, don't you?!”

 

“I didn't know,” his dad interjected, voice thick. Al ignored him.

 

“I just don't know why my parents need to know! It was just a bad breakup, okay?!”

 

His mum had pulled back, looking steely. “It does not sound like a bad breakup, Al. It sounds a bit worse than that. Need I remind you, you got  _ three _ OWLs?”

 

Al had felt winded. Everyone had tiptoed around passing judgment on his OWLs, until that moment. His mum’s never been one to hold back, though. “There's no relationship between the two!,” he had insisted weakly, convincing no one.

 

“Al...you okay, mate?,” asked Uncle Ron, attempting to be emotionally sensitive.

 

“Al, you can absolutely pull yourself back up! We've arranged the OWL retake, you just need to study hard and catch up - here, Rose has made you a timetable!” Aunt Hermione had handed him a diary, beaming anxiously. “We’re all here for you this year, sweetheart!”

 

Al had stared at it blankly, but Rose’s unintelligible handwriting suddenly made him furious. He pulled back and tossed it out of the open window with as much force as he would toss a gnome out of the Burrow’s garden. “FUCK your timetable, Rose!” 

 

He feels hot around the ears at this memory.

 

“Al!,” his mum had shrieked. “Apologise to Rose and Aunt Hermione immediately!”

 

Al had run off, however, and refused to talk to Rose all the rest of summer.  _ Who did she think she was? _ , he thinks now, angrily. They haven't even talked properly since after last Christmas, when she told him to break up with Eustace (he refuses to consider the fact that she was right).  _ How would she know what happened? She wasn't around _ .

 

Miserable again, Al closes his eyes, willing the train’s rumbling to lull him to sleep.

 

-x-

 

“SHEBA! BATHSHEBA!”

 

Excellent. Great. His first Prefect Meeting of the year, and he's late, because his cat has escaped.

 

Scorpius has run up and down the train, his glasses almost falling off thrice, unable to find the fluffy tortoiseshell, until he finally spots her curled up in the shadow between the conductor’s and the trolley witch’s seat. “Sorry!,” he pants. “No matter!,” says the apple-cheeked man, smiling benignly. “Was enjoying her company, matter of fact.” 

 

Scorpius just looks at him.  _ Couldn't you have alerted me to the fact that she was here when you heard me running up and down the train, shouting “Has anybody seen a cat?”? _ , he wants to ask, but he doesn't. He scoops up Sheba, ignoring her wriggling, and sets off for the Prefects’ compartment.

 

“Cheers, mate!,” says Martin Jordan, who is apparently the new Head Boy now, grinning. “Ravenclaw in top form today, eh? Rose isn't here yet either!” Scorpius takes a seat, his face red, and mumbles, “I lost Sheba,” although he's sure that nobody hears him except Ji-yeon Kim, sitting directly on his left.

 

“Right,” says Martin, “let's get to work, no time to waste. So, Prefect duties…”

 

Rose clatters into the compartment at this moment, nose suspiciously red, and apologises breathlessly. “Sorry, sorry, got held up.” Scorpius is pretty sure she's been crying, though, and he frowns at her questioningly, a look she chooses to ignore. 

 

Martin looks concerned too, but distracts everyone’s attention from Rose by assigning Prefect duties (Scorpius is with Rose, same as last year), and then decides Quidditch pitch assignments and Prefect meeting times. “Now! On to the good stuff! Hogsmeade trips! When shall we have them?!”

 

“Valentine’s Day weekend,” declares Arya Patil breathlessly, leaning forward towards Martin, who seems to preen with the attention.

 

“Right after Halloween,” Nathan Finch-Fletchley quickly interjects, and other Prefects start making suggestions, determined to be heard. There's a brief tussle as Martin tells them that there are only three this year, as opposed to the usual four, and then they finally decide on Halloween, mid-January, and early April. 

 

“Why only three, though?,” asks Scorpius. 

 

“That's the other fun bit, boys and girls, witches and wizards, ladies and gentlemen -”

 

“Get on with it,” mutters Ji-yeon irritably. Scorpius is enjoying himself, though - Martin, with his Afro and pet snake Godric, seems to be shaping up into a much better Head Boy than last year’s Eustace Davies, a slimy git if Scorpius ever saw one.

 

“-this year, we, Prefects, Head Persons, and Quidditch Captains shall be organising a ball! A soirée, a par-tay! Dress robes shall be worn!  Dances shall be danced! Dates shall be asked out!  _ Snogging shall be had!  _ All of you are required to attend with dates, by the way.” Martin slips this last bit in quickly at the end of his speech in the midst of delighted  _ oohs _ and  _ aahs _ , but it does not go unnoticed.

 

“Dates?,” asks Ji-yeon, pale. Scorpius ducks to hide his hot face, pretending he is petting Sheba.  _ Dates? _

 

“That’s right!,” says Martin, attempting a cheerful grin. “Ah, don’t worry, mates!,” he says, sighing deeply at the falling faces. “I knew it. You lot of nerds. I knew you’d react this way.”

 

“We’re not nerds!,” Rose objects automatically, and everyone raises their eyebrows at her. 

 

“Fine,  _ I’m _ not a nerd!”

 

“Come on, guys...it’s easy to get a date. Can we just plan this event?” Martin is looking alarmed.

 

“Easy?!,” Rose shrills. “It isn’t  _ easy _ , Martin - ”.

 

“Yes, it is! Watch me! Rose, want to go to the ball with me?”

 

Rose pauses. Her mouth is open but she seems to have forgotten what she wants to say. Scorpius thinks she looks quite like her dad on his Chocolate Frog card right now. “Um...yes?,” she says weakly, as Arya glares at her and Martin in turn.

 

“I mean, don’t feel obligated or anything,” Martin grins, but it’s clear that he’s nervous. Everyone giggles (except Arya).

 

“No, no, I’d love to go!,” Rose says hurriedly. Then she smiles mischievously. “Thanks for fixing my date problem.” Martin looks taken aback, and his blush is visible through his dark skin. “Adorable,” sighs the new fifth-year Hufflepuff Prefect, and everyone starts laughing. 

 

“Oi, you lot! Back to planning!” Martin, practically bouncing in his seat after successfully asking out Rose, is brandishing a piece of paper. “The ball is on Valentine’s Day, so that’s why we can’t have a Hogsmeade trip then - got to intersperse the fun with long bouts of misery, see, it’s school policy - but we can get a band - “

 

“Ooh, the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!,” suggests the Hufflepuff prefect.

 

“The fuck…? Can we get the Vampire Vixens, please?!”

 

“Ugh, no! Weird Sisters!  _ Classic _ , man.”

 

“They’re so old!”

 

“But classic!”

 

After the band is decided - it’s The Wet-Start Fireworks - Scorpius escapes train patrol duty, and heads back to his compartment for a well-deserved nap. His mum had kept him up late last night, packing and repacking his trunk like she did every year. 

 

He awakens as the Hogwarts Express rattles to a stop at Hogsmeade Station. Fuck. He’s forgotten to put on his robes. 

 

“Where’re my glasses…?” He feels around blindly until Lia hands them to him, and once his vision is less blurry, he sees her and Meera smirking at him. 

 

“Has _perfect_ _Prefect_ Scorpius forgotten to put on his robes? What sort of an example are you setting for impressionable young minds, sir?!,” Meera cackles. Bint. 

 

“Glad to see your stupid jokes are as stupid as ever!,” he retorts, weak even by his standards. He frantically scrabbles for his robes in his trunk and throws them on. He loops his tie around his neck - the tying will have to wait - and slips his feet into his shoes, which he had taken off to curl up on the seat. “Stop laughing!,” he snaps at Meera, who laughs even harder. 

 

“Sorry, you look - you look - so put together, Scorp! Okay, Lia and I are off - we’ll grab a carriage, all right?” Scorpius nods, sweeping everything into his trunk and snapping it shut. “Okay, robes on, where’s Sheba?,” he mutters to himself, looking around.

 

Sheba?

 

He swears. Stupid cat! Escaped again. Scorpius has heard that cats can apparently find their way back home, but Sheba seems to be defective on that count. Desperately glancing out of the window at the teeming platform - the train must be about to start again - he runs out of his compartment, yelling her name on the off-chance she will meow back.

 

“Uh - mate - you looking for this?” Someone is sticking their head out of a compartment, holding out Sheba. 

 

“Yes!,” he breathes, thankful, and runs down the empty hallway, jerking to a stop in front of the someone. He finds himself looking down into the very green eyes of Albus Potter. 

 

Suddenly nervous, he takes two steps back, rumples his hair and pushes his glasses up his nose, where they promptly slide down again.

 

“Er - is this...Chiba?,” Albus asks, holding out the cat.

 

“Sheba. Bathsheba,” Scorpius corrects him automatically, looking away from those piercing eyes as he remembers what he’s here for. 

 

He thinks he sees Albus’ lips twitch, but then he says, sounding a bit out of it, “Right. Yeah. Here.” 

 

“Right. Yeah,” Scorpius echoes awkwardly, taking the cat, who rubs her face against his fingers fondly. He kneels and stuffs her into her cage, snapping the door shut firmly. “Thanks so much!,” he says, feeling like he should add something to the conversation. He wants to slap himself when he realizes he sounds a lot like Arya Patil back in the Prefects’ compartment. 

 

“No problem,” says Albus, turning back into his compartment. That’s when Scorpius notices that he’s not wearing his robes yet.

 

“You’re not wearing your robes yet,” he blurts, glancing out of the window. The first few carriages have already taken off.

 

“And?,” Albus turns around, looking hostile.

 

“So...you put your robes on  _ before _ you get to Hogwarts, usually,” says Scorpius, uncomfortably feeling every bit the perfect Prefect that Meera called him. The train is blowing its two-minutes-left whistle now, and rumbling ominously.

 

“What’s it to you?” 

 

Albus is full-on glaring now.

 

“Nothing! Nothing! It’s just...I’m a Prefect. Ravenclaw Prefect,” Scorpius responds lamely. “And the train’s about to go back to London.”

 

“Oh really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Albus says sarcastically, looking away. Scorpius looks out the window and is alarmed to see steam enveloping the platform. The train has started moving.

 

“Er…” Scorpius is not sure how to respond to that.  _ What’s with you?, _ is what he’d like to ask, but he doesn’t. He should really leave - however, he’s not sure it’s a good idea. Albus looks...odd. He squints out the window to see if he can make out Hagrid or Grubbly-Plank and motion to them, but the steam is too thick.

 

However, after thirty seconds of silence, Albus huffs, pulls out his robe and Slytherin tie, and shoves past Scorpius, heading for the compartment door. Scorpius follows gratefully, his long stride causing him to step on the back of Albus’ shoes accidentally more than once. They jump off the train just as it starts to pick up speed, and Scorpius trips on his untied shoelaces and knocks Albus over.

 

“I am SO sorry!,” he exclaims, picking himself up clumsily. Albus is looking positively murderous now. Scorpius thinks it's safe to say he has not made a good first impression. “It’s fine!,” Albus snaps, sounding very not fine.

 

“Al! And is that Malfoy? Malfoy! We were lookin’ for both o’ yeh!,” Hagrid’s snowy hair emerges from the steam. “Come on, yeh’re in time for the las’ carriage - come on, both o’ yeh - “ He heaves Albus up, claps him on the back with so much force that he almost buckles again. 

 

He glances appraisingly at Scorpius. “Aren’ yeh a Prefect, Malfoy? Yeh’re supposed to be up at the castle early!” 

 

“Sorry, Professor,” Scorpius says contritely, and follows at a bit of a distance. 

 

Most people involved in the Second Wizarding War - on the wrong side or the right side - don’t like him much. For those on the right side, he is the son and grandson of prominent Death Eaters. For those on the wrong side, he is the son and grandson of blood traitors, and solidly middle-class to boot.  _ No matter that most Voldemort supporters lost their fortunes, fled the country or went to Azkaban _ , Scorpius thinks grimly. 

 

After third year, when he first read about the Second Wizarding War in History of Magic, he stopped taking the winning side’s suspicions of him personally; the accounts of the pureblood supremacist atrocities kept him up at night, and he understood at that moment why his father had simply bowed his head and walked out with Scorpius and Astoria in tow when Florean Fortescue’s weeping daughter had banished them from the ice-cream parlour during his first trip to Diagon Alley. His NEWT History lessons put knots in his stomach, as he reviews Wizengamot trials, and tries to swallow the fact that his father had associated with - even liked and admired - the certifiably insane wizards and witches in his books. 

 

He does not discuss such things with his father - he is relatively certain that they will upset him - but he does not fault people like Hagrid and Fortescue’s daughter for holding a grudge. He has heard that his grandfather was the one to kill Fortescue, in the dank cellar of Malfoy Manor, and that his family did not get a body to bury. After all this history, honestly, Scorpius is surprised that his peers - sons and daughters of those involved in the War - largely ignore or accept him.

 

Hagrid bundles them into the carriage, after a stern telling-off, Scorpius has plenty of time to contemplate wizarding politics and history on the carriage ride up to the castle. 

  
However, Albus - Al? - is shivering without his cloak, and absently petting Bathsheba (who has somehow escaped her cage and should have been named Houdini), and moodily gazing out of the window, and it’s very attractive, so Scorpius spends the ride sneaking glances at cute Albus Potter instead. 


	2. Two

“Professor Shafiq?”

Albus stands nervously at the threshold to his Head of House’s office. Professor Shafiq’s bald pate gleams in the sunlight, and Albus gazes in the general vicinity of it instead of looking at Shafiq’s face. Shafiq teaches Potions - the only subject Al did not do terribly in, and the only subject Al likes, quite honestly. Actually, Al loves Shafiq’s classes, although it would be terribly nerdy to admit that he does. 

“Ah. Mr. Potter,” he says. “Come, sit down.”

Albus sits on the chair he has summoned to his desk.

“So, three OWLs, is it?”

Al goes red at Shafiq’s tired, yet sympathetic glance. Well, this is humiliating and painful. He’s an embarrassment to Slytherin.

“No point beating about the bush, Potter. Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Potter tell me you’re supposed to retake the OWLs.”

“Yes, sir,” Albus mumbles.

“Are you going to?,” Shafiq asks.

Albus looks up. “Of course, sir,” he says, surprised.

Shafiq smiles, unexpectedly. “Well, I had to check. No one can make you retake them. This is about the time many students stop caring about school. Wondered if you might be one of them.” 

He looks at Al thoughtfully. “Didn’t think so, though.”

“No, sir,” Albus agrees nervously. 

“So, you’re scheduled to take the OWLs in December, Potter, during your holidays. You’ll be going down to the Ministry of Magic in London for that, afraid we can’t get the examiners up here that time of the year…”

“Er - no problem, sir,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s supposed to reply.

Shafiq goes on, ignoring Al’s awkward reply, “...and NEWTs. What shall we do about NEWTs, Potter?”

Al is quiet. The question had been nagging at his mind ever since he got that fateful letter. Even in his pass OWLs, he qualifies for no NEWT classes - McGonagall and Shafiq take only O students, and Professor Patil, the Charms professor, takes only Es. Suddenly, he wonders irrationally, his heart in his throat, whether this is the end of his time at Hogwarts. He had dreaded coming back, but he finds that he does not want to leave.

After a few moments of silence, Shafiq sighs. 

“Albus - I know you could have done much better.” 

Albus nods, staring at a scratch on Shafiq’s desk. 

“You got solid Os in Potions your entire school career - with the exception of the last few months of your fifth year. And I’ve kept track of your other classes as well - you’re good at Transfiguration and Herbology and Arithmancy too. Not bad at Charms either. You’re pretty good at school, Potter.”

Al’s ears feel hot, but he nods again. He didn’t know Shafiq had noticed, but it was true. He had always been good at school. He knew his teachers would point this out when he got back to Hogwarts. 

He doesn’t expect Shafiq’s next words, spoken with unusual gentleness, though.

“What happened, son?”

Al’s heart feels like it is being squeezed by a fist. Unbidden, painful memories of the end of last year assault him - letters getting progressively shorter, coming back to Hogwarts and “I’m just really busy, love, but come here - let’s have a quick snog,” and the exceedingly horrible image of pale skin against dark, short sandy hair against long black, and radio silence afterwards - and to his horror, he feels his eyes burning again.  _ All this damn crying! _ , he thinks angrily. Just when he least expects it! He refuses to sit around, weeping like Moaning Myrtle. He stares intently at the scratch, and keeps his voice deliberately casual as he says, “Nothing serious, Professor. I just didn’t study enough, I suppose.”

Shafiq sighs. “You know your father works here, don’t you, Potter?”

Al looks up in horror, quite forgetting his wet eyes. “He  _ told _ you?!,” he exclaims. 

He is going to  _ kill _ him. Forget The Boy Who Lived - more like The Boy Whose Son Committed Patricide! 

“Even if he didn’t - which he did because he was _ concerned about you _ \- ” Shafiq says warningly, “ - I would have known, Potter. Rumours fly fast at Hogwarts, and it was quite the scandal last year, if you must know. I knew before your father told me.”

Albus is still fuming, but he can’t fly off the handle in front of the always-composed Professor Shafiq. He breathes deeply through his nose instead.

“Either way, I understand that you’d rather not tell me about what happened, and that is fine - you are absolutely entitled to your privacy, and are more than capable of handling your own affairs, and don’t let any teacher tell you otherwise, even if it’s me - ” Albus has to smile at that, “ - or your father, for that matter - ,” Albus laughs now, and Shafiq chuckles dryly. “But we do have to decide what to do about your NEWTs.”

Albus nods, smile fading. “Sir - perhaps we’ll know once we get my new OWLs.”

“Yes, I suppose we shall...well, what NEWTs did you want to take, Potter? You never showed up for our career counseling session last year,” Shafiq raises his eyebrows.

Albus remembers. He had spent the entire hour curled up dreamily in Eustace’s arms, forgetting entirely about the outside world, about classes, about teachers, about life after Hogwarts, about life outside the little alcove behind the tapestry of Marvenus the Maleficent...later in the evening, he had realized with a jolt that he had missed his appointment.

“Er - sorry, sir. I...had gotten held up.” Shafiq doesn’t question it.

“I - I wanted to take - well, Charms, obviously, it’s useful. And Transfiguration and Herbology. Wouldn’t have minded continuing with Arithmancy either. And DADA. And - well - and Potions, of course. It’s my favourite subject.”

“You saying that just to butter me up, Potter?,” smiles Shafiq.

“No, sir - I really like it. It’s honestly the only subject I enjoy,” admits Albus. He’s in a bit of a panic, though. He won’t be retaking the Potions OWL, as he passed well, but Shafiq is not going to let him into his class with an E.

As he expects, Shafiq says, “I’ll be honest with you, Potter - I don’t let students with less than an O into my class. I find they usually can’t handle it.”

Al nods, heart sinking. 

“But I’ll make you a deal. I think you can handle NEWT Potions. You’re one of my best students…,” Albus flushes, pleased, “...and it’d be a shame if you don’t get to do a NEWT in a subject you enjoy and are excellent at, all because of a mark on an exam. I’ll let you in. But it’s provisional, Potter. I don’t let just anybody in, and you need to prove that that mark was less than you’re capable of. So how about this - you brew me an advanced, NEWT-level Potion in the next month - no help from me, although you can use help from textbooks and other students - and, if it’s a good brew, I’ll turn that provisional acceptance into a definite.”

Al can hardly believe his ears. Shafiq is offering him a second chance. 

“What Potion, sir?”

Shafiq gets the satisfied, thoughtful look he gets when he asks a particularly hard question in class. 

“How about...Veritaserum?”

Albus opens his mouth, but finds he can’t speak. 

Veritaserum...that’s...not even beginner NEWT Level. It is mid-sixth year, at the very least. It is insanely difficult to brew...but at the same time, Al already wants to go into the Potions cupboard and select the least ruffled jobberknoll feathers, scoop up some glittering powdered moonstone, head to the edge of the forest and find sprigs of belladonna under moonlight, finally crack open the prized NEWT ingredients cabinet in the cupboard for the occamy eggshells - 

“Ah, stuff it, I’m being hard on you -”

“No, no, I’ll do it!,” Al bursts out. 

Shafiq quirks a smile. “Wouldn’t have expected any less of you. And if you make it successfully, Potter...I’ll give you a vial.”

Al is unnerved, yet excited. “Me?,” he asks. “Is that...legal? Full-strength?”

Shafiq snorts. “Do you think I’m mad, Potter? It won’t be full-strength Veritaserum - I’ll dilute it with salamander blood, kills the effect of the jobberknoll feathers, which -

“ - are what produce the powerful physical compulsion to answer a question,” Albus finishes, and Shafiq looks pleased.

“Right! But even the diluted Veritaserum’ll hold up for a smashing game of Truth and Dare, I’d say…,” Shafiq grins as Albus raises his eyebrows. “What? I was young once!”

“As for your other NEWTs - well, I daresay you’d have to discuss them with your Professors, but Pad - uh, Professor Patil should let you in, she likes you, although she’ll probably assign you a similar project for Charms - and for the rest, I’ll be giving you some provisional OWL marks based on my assessment of your performance before March last year, and I will request teachers to let you in based on those.” Before Albus can do more than gibber thanks, Shafiq says, quite sternly, “You  _ will _ get those predicted marks in your retests, though, yeah, Potter?”

Al nods vigorously, barely believing his luck. 

“Now - final order of business - getting you up to speed.”

“Up to speed?,” Al asks.

“Your parents - and your teachers - quite rightly feel that you did not pay enough attention last year. You breezed along well enough, Es and As, Os in my class, because you’re good at school, but you weren’t studying nearly enough and you were missing essential concepts - yes, we noticed, Potter. It’s time to get serious, son. Your life depends on the next two years. You can’t retake the OWLs again, and this time, you’ll be preparing while starting NEWT classes - you’ll have less time. So we’ve decided to give you some extra support for the exams - you’ll be getting a tutor,” Shafiq finishes this forbidding speech, quite unlike his usual casual approach, really - so Albus knows he’s been asked by McGonagall or his father to make these points. He leans back in his chair, raising his bushy black eyebrows challengingly at Al, obviously expecting protest.

“Er...a tutor?,” inquires Albus. He’s rather embarrassed at the thought - a year ago, he would have been asked to be the tutor. He wants to resist the suggestion, but he doesn’t want to piss Shafiq off. The professor has been exceedingly understanding, given the circumstances. Plus...he’s right. Studying for OWLs was hard enough for the fifth-years when that was all they were supposed to do. He’s supposed to prepare for them with NEWT classes going on, as well - and the Veritaserum to brew.

He surprises Shafiq when he agrees. 

“You unpredictable Slytherin,” Shafiq says wryly. “Was prepared for you to break something, at the very least. Well, we’re looking for a tutor right now, finding a student who has the time and who did well on the subjects you’re retaking...I’ll send you a note when we find one. Tutoring should be twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, two hours each day; if you need more, let us know.”

Some pleasantries, and Shafiq tells him to come back the next day for the Veritaserum ingredients, and dismisses him. Albus leaves, his generally low spirits slightly buoyed by the fact that this meeting went much better than he thought it would.

-x-

Albus spends most of the next week meeting the professors of the NEWT classes he wants to take with his new provisional grades (his dad, as expected, is hardest to convince, paranoid as he is about favouritism, and Patil’s a hard nut to crack too, making him demonstrate complicated, fiddly charms and recite definitions right there in her office - but at least no Veritaserum-like assignment), going to his new NEWT classes, ordering books by owl (he had been so dazed during summer vacations he had completely missed the back-to-school Diagon Alley visit), and Flooing his mum from his dad’s office to help her find his OWL materials from last year to mail him, which, in his misery, he had not even thought to pack. 

Eventually, he gets provisionally admitted to all the NEWT classes he wanted - Potions, yes, but also DADA, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Arithmancy. Not a bad lot. With these classes, he could become a Healer, or even qualify for some of the Ministry jobs. Now all that remains is doing well on his OWL retake.

For several minutes, sometimes even a couple of hours everyday, Albus is optimistic. He can believe things are looking up. However, those moments rarely last long. He might be eating at the Slytherin table with Liam, his friend and roommate since first year, and Liam says something about Quidditch, and Al thinks of how Eustace used to play Quidditch. Or the house-elves might send up bread pudding, which Eustace used to like - still likes, he supposes - and then he thinks of how he and Eustace never ate together, or rarely did anything together in public, actually. Or he might be walking to Arithmancy, in the North Tower, and pass the corner nearly hidden by the staircase where Eustace had first kissed him, and feel like he got punched in the gut. Moments like these make him remember with a shock the feeling of endless misery that he was positively drowning in this summer, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe for the pain of it. Over the months, the pain has dulled to an ache, but it still sits heavy on his chest, a rudely persistent reminder of his loss.

“Albus. Oi. Al.  _ Al. _ ”

Albus jerks out of his reverie - he was remembering, with a sweet kind of pain, the way Eustace’s arms felt around him - and looks at Liam, who jerks his chin to the right and continues reading his Herbology book, brow furrowed. A tiny first-year girl is holding out a note - “from Professor Shafiq,” she blurts - and scurries off. Albus unfolds it.

_ Potter, _

_ Your tutoring starts tomorrow. Your tutor is Scorpius Malfoy, from Ravenclaw - he’s taking some of the same NEWT classes as well, so I expect you will find his assistance helpful. You will be working in the library during your free periods: 2-4 PM, every Tuesday and Friday. I will be chatting with Malfoy regularly to make sure you’re keeping up - I better not hear of any slacking off. _

_ Shamim Shafiq _

_ Potions Professor _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

“Personalized parchment, wouldn’t have pegged Shafiq for that type of guy.” Liam has been reading over his shoulder, Herbology forgotten.

“You’re so nosy,” says Albus exasperatedly.

“Forget that, tutoring? I didn’t know you were going to get tutored.” 

Liam is curious, but Al does not feel like indulging his curiosity. Beyond his teachers and his family, and Rose’s family, and now his new tutor, nobody knows about his OWL resits, and he’d rather it stay that way. Liam is nice and all, but he doesn’t want the information spreading throughout school, which will inevitably happen with his roommate’s big mouth. Unwillingly, he feels a pang for Rose, who knows, and who could give him advice, and plan out his study schedule, and probably tutor him as well. No, she probably wouldn’t tutor him. She’s too lazy.

“Why, though?,” Liam asks.

“Why what?,” Albus asks blankly.

“Er...why are you getting tutored…?,” Liam raises his eyebrows, and Al shakes himself. He’s got to stop slipping into these reveries.

“It’s going to be a busy year. They thought I needed extra support for some of the difficult subjects,” Albus explains vaguely.

“Damn, wish I could get extra support. Ancient Runes is killing me.”

Albus hums noncommittally.

“So you’re okay with that? Being tutored? Do you know Scorpius?”

“Somewhat,” says Albus. “Ran into him on the train, actually...” 

He breaks off, as he remembers why he ran into Scorpius Malfoy and his cat. Throughout the train ride, getting closer and closer to Hogwarts, he had been seriously considering doing something drastic - perhaps jumping out of the train window after they stopped and sneaking down to Hogsmeade and calling the Knight Bus, or just taking the train back and disappearing into Muggle London, leaving all the shit behind - the panic over his OWLs, the pain over Eustace, the way Hogwarts would gossip, the way Rose would judge him. He had been considering what it would be like to live without magic - at least for a year - when the cat, Bathsheba, appeared, and he heard frantic yelling. 

Although it was just over a week ago, Albus feels slightly ashamed of his thoughts - and his actions - that day. He goes slightly red as he remembers himself snapping at and then totally ignoring Scorpius on the carriage ride up. He’s going to have to do something about that.

-x-

Scorpius stands in front of his dorm’s bathroom mirror, straightening his shirt and adjusting his bookbag to lie more rakishly across his shoulder for the sixth time. He runs a comb through his hair, and scrutinizes his appearance, glaring at the one spot that’s appeared on his chin. He blinks at himself in the mirror, slowly, willing himself to see the boy in the mirror through a stranger’s eyes. Is he attractive...? 

“Nice eyes, sweetheart,” the mirror drawls, and Scorpius jumps back in shock. The talking mirror is apparently unique to the sixth-year Ravenclaw boys’ dorms; it’s been a week, and he still hasn’t gotten used to it. He shakes his head, laughs at himself, checks the time, yelps, and dashes out.

“Wonder who he’s meeting,” the mirror sighs.

-x-

Scorpius needn’t have worried - his mad dash, and Ravenclaw’s proximity to the library, ensures that he gets there nearly fifteen minutes before Albus, who is actually late, and he spends the entire time arranging and rearranging the fifth-year Transfiguration and DADA books the professors have lent him for Albus’ tutoring, and shifting around the quill in its inkpot.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Albus Potter of the Very Beautiful Eyes and the Very Moody Moods is standing over his desk.

Scorpius jumps, nearly knocking over the quill and inkpot. “H-hi!,” he says. “Er - good to see you again, Albus. Albus Severus. Sorry. I don’t know which one you prefer.” He internally slaps himself for his verbal diarrhoea.

Albus nods and takes a seat. “Er - good to see you too. It’s Albus. Or just Al, really.” He looks at the books on the table, rubbing the back of his neck, and then takes out a sheaf of parchment from his bag and puts it next to the inkpot. 

They stare at each other. 

“Well! - ,” Scorpius says.

“Listen - ,” Albus says.

“Go ahead,” Albus says hurriedly. 

“Er - no - you had something to say, please go ahead!,” Scorpius says anxiously. 

“Okay. Listen,” Albus ploughs on. “I was quite rude to you at the train station, for no reason at all. You were just doing your duty. As Prefect. So I wanted to apologize for being a dick, before we get started tutoring. I’m sorry.”

Scorpius gapes. 

“No, really. I was being rude.”

Scorpius opens his mouth to say it’s okay, Albus wasn’t being rude, it’s perfectly fine, and it’s kind of him to apologize, but what ends up coming out is, “Yeah, no shit.” 

He bites the inside of his mouth, horrified at himself.

Albus raises his eyebrows, grinning ruefully. “You don’t hold back, do you, Malfoy?”

“Er - no - I - er...,” Scorpius pushes his glasses up his nose, embarrassed and a bit amazed at his own audacity. He looks desperately for something to do that does not involve looking at Albus. He picks up the quill in his right hand, transfers it to his left when he remembers he’s left-handed, and dips it unnecessarily in the inkpot once more, pulling some parchment towards him and blotting it immediately with the dripping quill. “Er - let’s - let’s get started, shall we?”

He pulls out his lesson plan. Things should be pretty simple today. Lucky, considering his brain seemed to have switched off. He has decided to cover the basics to begin with. Professor Patil had told him that Albus had gotten three OWLs and needed to retake the exams. Scorpius had been quite alarmed. How thick did you have to be to get  _ three OWLs _ ? 

He had decided to start gently, so as not to overwhelm the poor boy. 

“So, let’s read the theory of transfiguring a matchstick into a needle…”

But Albus breezes through that, and Gamp’s Law and the twelve uses of dragon’s blood in five minutes, reciting them perfectly and looking quite surprised that Scorpius wants to cover them at all. 

When Scorpius switches to disarming spells, though, Albus says, sounding slightly exasperated, “You do realize I grew up with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who taught me this spell - his signature spell - the one with which he _ killed Voldemort  _ \- when I was seven?”

All Scorpius can think to say is, stupidly, “You’re not supposed to be doing magic when you’re seven.”

Albus snaps the book shut, leaning forward. Scorpius looks down, once again arrested by those green-hazel eyes. His glasses slide down his nose again. He really should get them tightened. 

“Is there a reason we’re covering first-year material, though, Malfoy? I mean, it may show up in the OWL, but I’ve only known this stuff for five years.”

“Er...well. I thought, you know, it would help you...master the foundations. That’s often why many students...struggle,” Scorpius responds hesitatingly, trying to find the least offensive way to phrase things.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Albus says, understanding dawning on his face. “You think I’m a dimwit.”

“No!,” Scorpius exclaims. Albus looks at him. “Well..yes,” he admits.

Why does he keep blurting out the first thought on his mind around Albus? It’s the eyes, he decides. They switch off his filter.

Albus looks offended for a second, before his lips twitch and a grin breaks out, green eyes crinkling. “Sorry,” he gasps, laughing now, his shoulders shaking. “I’m just thinking of you patiently trying to teach me how to turn a matchstick into a needle…” 

“I’m glad you knew that, it was surprisingly hard to explain such a basic concept,” Scorpius says, relieved, and it only makes Albus laugh harder.

“Sorry - Scorpius - I think I’d like to go over the right pronunciation for Wingardium Leviosa again? I mean, how dumb did you think I was?” He breaks off, positively crying with laughter now.

Scorpius is grinning uncertainly now too, and says, “Three OWLs, Potter. And a Troll in two subjects? I didn’t even know that mark existed, I thought it was an urban myth.”

For a moment, he is afraid he offended Albus, who hesitates, but then he immediately yelps, “You’re  _ savage _ , Malfoy!”

Scorpius opens his mouth to embarrassedly apologize, but he jumps when he feels a clawlike hand dig into his shoulder. Madam Pince’s face, terrifyingly purple, eyes bulging, descends next to his, and she hisses, almost silently into his face, “Out.  _ Out _ . Now.”

Scorpius doesn’t need to be told twice. He gathers up his stuff at top speed and hightails it out, dimly aware of Albus following, continuing to laugh. “Shut up!,” he hisses back, face red. He’s  _ never _ been thrown out of the library before! And on his first day of tutoring!

“Merlin’s saggy Y-fronts, your face!,” Albus chokes out, as soon as they exit the library. “I haven’t seen someone that scared since my sister first saw a garden gnome! And she was two!” He drops his bag on the floor and sits down, clutching a stitch in his side. “I haven’t laughed this hard in...ever,” he shakes his head, running his hand through his hair, attractive even with his red face and streaming eyes.

“Want to continue here?,” he asks Scorpius, settling more comfortably against the stone of the wall. The fall sunlight through the arched windows makes the black of his hair and the green of his eyes gleam.

And so, Scorpius sinks down, crossing his lanky legs and suppressing the smile that comes to his lips, and tutors Albus Potter for the first time sitting in the seventh-floor hallway in front of the portrait of Norman the Nondescript.

-x-

“Hi,” says Albus casually in the hallways, and Scorpius thanks the powers that be that he’s not a blusher as he smiles shyly back.

“Can we cover animal transfiguration in the next session? Can you get us a couple of hedgehogs?,” Albus asks worriedly, stopping at the Ravenclaw table during lunch, and Scorpius simply nods silently, his gaze darting between the boy’s chin and his plate.

Albus stares out the window during Charms, looking lost, and Scorpius traces the curve of his jawline with his eyes repeatedly throughout the lesson, equally distracted, making a mental note to read up on Switching Charms and teach Albus - just as a favour - that evening.

“So, Scorp, fancy anyone?,” asks Meera pointedly, one evening in the Ravenclaw common room. The side of Lia’s mouth quirks as she continues pretending to read her Charms essay.

“Me?,” Scorpius says awkwardly. “Ah - no...nobody…?”

“You sound unsure,” Meera presses, leaning forward, dark eyes gleaming.

“I’m - no, I’m not!,” Scorpius laughs. “I think I’d know if I fancied anybody, yeah?” He pushes his glasses up his nose and picks up a wriggly, unwilling Sheba, starting to tickle her under the chin.

“You’re fidgeting,” Lia observes, in her quiet manner, finally pushing aside Charms in favour of the much more interesting interaction in front of her. 

“No, I’m not,” Scorpius replies, uncomfortable with both girls looking at him.

“You only do that when you’re nervous,” she says, ignoring his protest.

“I think you’re nervous because you’re  _ lying _ ,” Meera says, abandoning all attempts at subtlety. “Lying about not fancying someone. Lying about not fancying Al Potter!”

Scorpius splutters. “I - no! I don’t fancy him! Why would I fancy him?”

“He’s pretty fanciable,” says Lia seriously. “I mean, those shoulders. And nice eyes, too. Might ask him to Hogsmeade - ”

“He’s gay!,” Scorpius snaps, and Meera bursts into peals of laughter, causing Sheba to leap out of Scorpius’ arms and run off. 

“Never - nevermind, Lia! He doesn’t need to say it! Look at his face!”

“It’s okay, Scorpius, I won’t encroach on your territory - ”

“He’s  _ not _ my territory! He’s just - someone I tutor - shh!,” Scorpius hushes them when he realizes that fellow Ravenclaws are beginning to look over, amused or irritated.

Lia and Meera are giggling helplessly, though, and Meera chokes out, “Just admit it, you big wet blanket!”

“Fine!,” Scorpius snaps, and then feels immediately light-headed at acknowledging out loud, for the first time, how he feels about Al Potter. “Er - can we go upstairs?,” he asks weakly, uncomfortably aware of the interested gazes of Tara Jones and Lizzie Burstow, who have sniffed gossip, on him and his friends.

When Meera and Lia collapse on his bed, leaving him to perch, disgruntled, on the dresser, he continues, “Yes, I fancy Albus. A little bit.” He feels ridiculous.  _ Fancying _ someone. As if he is some thirteen-year-old.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Meera says. “You’re thinking it’s ridiculous to fancy someone. I’m here to tell you it’s perfectly okay. Even normal. This happens to many of us, Scorpius. It’s due to something called  _ hormones _ \- they make you want to snog the pants off the object of your affection - ”

“Shut up!,” Scorpius says. He doesn’t blush, but he’s pretty sure his cheeks are pink. 

Lia’s usually serious demeanor breaks, and she collapsed in giggles. “So cute! - ” she chokes out “ - our baby fancies someone, Meera!” She rolls over, falling off the bed, sending herself into a fresh fit of laughter. 

Meera is clapping her hands in glee. “Do you realize how momentous this is, Lia?!” she practically yells. “This is the first time - I mean, he had that crush on Riz Khan in third year, but he pretended he didn’t and Riz was unattainable anyway, a seventh year - ”

“I did not!,” Scorpius gasps, horrified that Meera and Lia knew.

“You so did,” Meera says dismissively. “But thank Merlin, this time it’s on someone you can actually ask out - ”

“I’m not asking him out!”

“Why the hell not?!,” Meera and Lia chorus indignantly.

“I - I tutor him!,” Scorpius grasps at the first excuse that comes to mind.

“That just makes it hotter,” Lia grins wickedly, winking.

“Shut the fuck up!,” Scorpius yelps, burying his face in his arms, attempting to not think about Lia’s last comment.

The girls laugh uproariously.

“Aw, we’re embarrassing him - ” Meera says fondly, between giggles. “Can’t wait for them to get together. This looks like a job for a couple of matchmakers, eh, Lia?”

Scorpius groans.

-x-

Misery is a normal fact of Albus Potter’s life now. He’s accepted that his low mood will accompany him wherever he goes. It’s like a goblin is sitting on his chest, weighing him down, telling him to not go to class, to not do homework, to not hang out with his mates. And when he’s not feeling depressed, he’s feeling anxious, rather overwhelmed by the amount of work he has to do, attempting to escape all obligations in favour of completing homework. Liam forces him to eat, otherwise he wouldn’t do that, either - apparently misery saps you of appetite. For a few days, he found blessed relief in classes, where he just let himself zone out, before being embarrassingly pulled up publicly by Shafiq, who then held him after class and gave him a lecture about not failing the NEWTs, too.

Surprisingly, a bright spot in the otherwise unremitting darkness is his tutoring. Albus had dreaded being tutored, expecting being condescended to by some swot who would think he was a total dunce. Scorpius  _ had _ thought he was a total dunce - Albus grins, remembering their first class - and he  _ is _ a total swot, but luckily, he is not condescending. In fact, discovering that Al was actually quite smart, he seemed to delight in teaching him. Al is really quite pleased with his tutor assignment - Scorpius is a good teacher.

Today they’re practicing Patronuses in the empty Charms classroom, which is the most difficult thing Albus has ever encountered. 

“Dunno why they had to add these to the fifth-year curriculum,” he grumbles, staring at his dissipating wisp of silvery smoke wearily. “This is like - seventh-year magic.”

“Oi! No giving up! You can do it!” Scorpius insists. 

“Look - the key to a Patronus,” he adds, awkward but earnest, “is not really magical ability - the only magical part is when you create a physical manifestation of the light within yourself - happiness, empathy, compassion...love. But everyone has that light inside them - all magical and non-magical beings. And everyone can summon that light to drive away Dark forces.”

“Right,” Albus says, rolling his eyes. “Except me.”

“Well, no. Not everyone can produce a Patronus. Like, there are people who are just incapable of producing a Patronus.”

“What?!,” Albus asks, nervous. He doesn’t want to be the only Potter kid incapable of producing a Patronus...Lily, who has inherited his dad’s prodigious DADA talent, produced one last year (a lion, to boot). “Why?!”

Scorpius laughs, amused by Albus’ consternation. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re not one of them! You just started! But to answer your question, from what I understand, there are people who are unable to tap into that light within themselves.” 

“How come?”

“Well - ” Scorpius hesitates. “Well, the first reason is that they’re Dark. So Dark that they’ve driven out all vestige of light within themselves. Or...and this is where it gets messy, because some people could produce a Patronus, theoretically, it’s just that they...can’t. This is when...they…” He pauses again. 

“When they just don’t believe that light exists,” he finishes, finally. “That’s the reason, really, that Patronuses are hard. It has little to do with magical ability, and everything to do with...what you believe you are.”

Albus is silent, absorbing what Scorpius just said. He looks at him. Scorpius is nervously rumpling his hair, looking slightly distressed, as though he’s off in another world.

“Then how can it be required for the OWL?,” he decides to ask.

Scorpius looks up, his reverie broken. “It isn’t,” he says simply. “If you can’t produce a Patronus, you don’t get a lower mark - but you’re not allowed into NEWT DADA. Not being able to produce a Patronus indicates a lack of natural aptitude for the subject. But then, Professor Potter works really closely with students to help them on Patronuses, specifically - nearly everyone can produce one. Everyone in our year can, I think. He really worked hard with me, trying to help me draw it out - ” he stops, arrested, as though he hadn’t meant to say this.

“ _ You _ had trouble producing a Patronus?,” Albus asks, although, somehow, he already had an inkling.

“Er...yeah,” Scorpius confesses reluctantly.

“How come?,” says Albus, impossibly curious.

“Er - well - I tried for weeks, but...I guess maybe I fall into the latter category. From what Professor Potter explained to me.” Scorpius looks quite embarrassed.

“Wow,” says Albus. He feels awkward about asking more questions, although he really wants to. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s had trouble with the Patronus.”

He realizes, as the words leave his mouth, how insulting they sound, and how they do not convey what he meant. “I mean - what I mean to say is - it’s incredibly cool that you produced one anyway. I mean...you overcame that - that belief. That’s cool.”

Scorpius is looking uncertain, but very pleased. “Er, thanks,” he says, his face breaking into a wide smile, as though he can’t help it. “Thank you.”

“What’s your Patronus?,” Al asks, relieved to have rescued his gaffe.

“It’s a heron, actually,” says Scorpius, still looking pleased. “I really like it. Shall I show you?”

“Yeah, cool!,” Albus says, enthused.

Scorpius beams, and calls out “ _ Expecto Patronum! _ ” Out of the tip of his wand swoops a great, long-legged bird, and its huge wings beat in the air for a moment before it soars around the room. Albus watches in open-mouthed amazement.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen someone my age produce a Patronus!,” he exclaims.

“What? Weren’t you in the Patronus classes last year?,” Scorpius asks, laughing.

Albus is embarrassed as he remembers. No, he wasn’t. He was off with Eustace during those classes, which were right before Christmas break - his dad had given him an earful during the holiday for skiving.

“Okay, your turn,” says Scorpius, not waiting for him to answer, to Albus’ relief.

“Ugh,” Al groans. “Does it have to be?”

Scorpius laughs. “Yes! You’re the one getting tutored here!”

“Okay, fine.  _ Expecto Patronum! _ ” 

This time, he doesn’t even get a wisp, probably because he did not bother to think of a happy memory.

“You’re not even trying!,” Scorpius cries indignantly, still laughing.

“You’re right, I’m not,” Albus admits, which causes Scorpius to laugh harder. 

“Come on - try, just once more -”

Albus smiles in defeat, and closes his eyes, thinking of his happy memory. The happiest memories he can think of, really, all feature Eustace. The kind of happiness that he felt, becoming slowly infatuated - he’s never felt that way before. It seemed like a good choice for his Patronus, but why isn’t it working? He doesn’t think of the break up while trying to produce one...He focuses his mind on the happy memories -  Eustace and him by the lake, running into Eustace in the Owlery and the unexpected, passionate snogging that followed, Eustace bringing him a slice of chocolate cake, his face glowing in candlelight, on the chill November night of his birthday last year…” _ Expecto Patronum! _ ,” he cries, but in the middle of the incantation, he feels his stomach drop slightly as he remembers how Rose told him sharply afterwards that she had had to remind Eustace to wish him…

_ Shit _ . He knows, even before he opens his eyes, that there’s no Patronus. Somehow, this keeps happening…

He was so involved in his memories that he’s surprised to see Scorpius standing in front of him, looking puzzled and rumpling his hair. “Hmm…,” he says. “I really don’t know - have you tried different memories?”

“Yeah,” says Albus. He’s tried multiple memories of the last year.

“And they’re happy?”

“Yeah.” Happier than he’s ever been…

Scorpius is silent, twisting his wand in his fingers. He seems to be thinking. He goes to the teacher’s desk, and flips through some notes he brought in his bag today. “I remember Professor Potter saying that...you had to feel...what’s this, can’t even read my own writing - okay, you had to feel undiluted joy. Do you feel undiluted joy?”

“Erm - I guess so.”

Scorpius raises his eyebrows, grinning. “You guess so? That doesn’t sound undiluted.”

“Hey!,” Albus laughs. “Have  _ you _ ever felt undiluted joy?”

“Good point,” says Scorpius wryly. “Yeah, I think plain old happiness should do...worked for me…”

“What’s your memory?,” Albus asks. 

“Er - well. Coming to Hogwarts, actually.”

Albus can’t help himself - he smiles. “That,” he says, “is adorable.”

Scorpius blinks, looking surprised. Then he laughs, sounding slightly breathless. “Erm, yeah. It was - it was a good day.”

Albus considers his own memory of coming to Hogwarts. He had been happy, but it hadn’t been anything special - he’d known he was going, and he’d visited so many times anyway. No, that won’t work.

“I think I felt safe,” Scorpius adds, smiling warmly, seemingly lost in memory. “Like, I knew everything was going to be okay. I had made it to Hogwarts, and I was going to have the most wonderful time - ” he breaks off, cheeks pink. “Yeah, that’s the other thing Professor Potter said - the memory should make you feel safe. Warm. Invincible, almost - like nothing can ever hurt you. Since that’s what a Patronus is supposed to do - keep you safe.”

“Oh,” says Albus.  _ Oh.  _

He thinks about his memories, and suddenly it’s clear why they haven’t been working. It’s quite a sock in the gut to realize…

Around Eustace...he was never at ease. He’d always be anxious, checking his hair in the mirror, worried that the next moment Eustace would leave. 

The memories were happy, but they were the happiness you feel when you’re on a Muggle roller-coaster...not the sort of warm, steady happiness Scorpius is describing...

Scorpius is watching him attentively. “Is that it?,” he asks. “I feel like you just had an epiphany.” He smiles questioningly.

“Yeah,” says Albus, embarrassed at how he sounds slightly gruff. “I - I need a minute. To think of a new one. A new memory.”

“Sure,” says Scorpius agreeably, turning back to his notes.

Albus searches his mind. Safe...warm...invincible...undiluted joy...he smiles to himself. “Undiluted joy,” what a Dad thing to say, really. Mum would have teased him, calling him a big softy. He makes a mental note to tell her at the upcoming Weasley family dinner, where he will be seeing his entire family...it’s been a while, he thinks... 

He is suddenly reminded of the summer before his first year - Teddy and Vic had been skirting around each other all summer, and the cousins had hatched a plan to get them together. They had shoved them together in the broom shed, trapped them in games of Truth or Dare, made loud and obvious comments about their obvious infatuation with each other, gifted Teddy a range of Wheezes Love Potions, “accidentally” abandoned them during trips to Florean’s (according to Dom, who went on a lot of dates, ice cream was very romantic), and spied on them from various locations all over Wimsick Alley and Diagon Alley. Teddy and Vic had grown progressively more and more embarrassed and exasperated over the course of the summer, and had started actively avoiding each other. The cousins had given it up as a lost cause - until James had spotted them kissing on Platform 9¾. He had announced it loudly to the whole family, and Grandma had grabbed James and given him a resounding kiss on the cheek and the largest pumpkin pasty when Dad tried to yell at him. 

Al is filled with warmth at the thought of his big, messy, silly family. Instinctively, he raises his wand, calling out the incantation - a large, four-legged creature erupts from his wand - that’s a - Al reels. Wow. 

A tiger. 

“Holy shit!,” Scorpius gasps. “That’s - brilliant!”

Al is laughing jubilantly, filled to bursting with joy, watching the cat prowl the room. He got it - he finally got it - he feels like his happiness and pride can’t expand any more when - 

“Hello, you two. How are Patronuses going - Merlin!” His dad is standing in the doorway, the silvery light from the Patronus reflecting off his glasses. “A tiger! Cool!”

Dad looks incredibly pleased. “Now do you regret skiving, Al? You kids think it makes you look cool - but imagine if you’d produced this bloody great cat in class - now  _ that _ would have made you popular.”

“Shut it, Dad,” Al says, but he’s so happy. “Almost couldn’t get it - this is the first time I’ve got it.” He looks over at Scorpius, who is looking very proud. “Thanks, Scorpius.”.

“What did I do?,” Scorpius says, looking surprised. “That - it was all you.”

“You got me to think of the right memory! And you’ve been drilling Patronus Charms all week -”

“So I take it tutoring is going well?,” Dad interrupts. He is looking a bit confused, yet pleased, at this interaction.

“Yes, very well,” Al says agreeably.

“I was actually asking Mr. Malfoy,” Dad tells him pointedly, eyebrow raised, and Al grins, unembarrassed. “How’s Al doing?”

“Er - very well, sir,” says Scorpius, straightening up from his usual slouched posture, and pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s very tall, Albus notices with surprise. “He’s picking up things really fast, I think he’ll be very ready by December, sir - we’re starting with the difficult stuff, since his OWLs are so close - but I mean, it’s only taken a few lessons for him to get the hang of the Patronus, and that’s a difficult charm - ” He takes a breath, as if to go on, but stops, choosing to smile anxiously at Dad instead.

“Right,” says Dad, slowly. “Well - great to hear, Malfoy. Keep me updated - and keep him working hard, he’s not nearly as stupid as he looks - “ he grins at Albus, “ - and let me know if anything is needed from me, or any of the other teachers.” 

His grin softens into a gentle smile, and Al prepares himself for his dad being all soppy - “I’m proud of you, Al. Working so hard - it’s good to see you being serious.” He strides over, and, to Al’s supreme embarrassment, hugs him. 

Al wriggles out of the hug as soon as possible, cringing at Scorpius, who is trying to suppress a smile. “See you at the dinner,” Harry reminds him, and Al remembers with a shock that this weekend is the monthly Weasley family dinner, at Hogsmeade this time, so he can attend. 

“Er - yeah - see you, Dad,” says Albus.

“That’s Professor to you, young lad,” his dad says mockingly. “Or Saviour of the Wizarding World, if you prefer.” 

Al rolls his eyes. “Please leave, O Saviour.” His dad, chuckling, obliges.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles to Scorpius, unable to stop a laugh escaping, but when he doesn’t reply, he looks up. Scorpius is standing there, looking amused, but also a little lost. “You okay?,” he asks, concerned.

“Me? Um, yes - yes. Let’s - head out, shall we? I think we deserve to end a little early.”

They walk out, heading towards the Entrance Hall. They’ve taken to walking there together, as the entrance to both Ravenclaw Tower and the Slytherin dungeons is right next to it. The silence is awkward until -

“Patronuses are cool,” Al announces, still high off his tiger. “I like them.”

“Yeah,” Scorpius agrees, smiling brightly at Albus. He seems to have recovered.

“A bit useless, aren’t they, though? Now that we don’t have Dementors anymore - I mean, there are some, but we’re not likely to meet them.”

“I disagree,” says Scorpius, unexpectedly. “I mean - Patronuses are probably the most effective defensive magic that exists. They’re meant for helping you fight Dementors but they’re really effective against any dark creature - Inferi, vampires, acromantulas…I think everyone should know how to conjure one.”

“What’re the chances we’re going to encounter one of those, though?”

Scorpius is quiet for a bit, as they wait for one of the moving staircases to complete its journey. “Well, you never know,” he says finally. Albus looks at him curiously.

“I mean - it’s not like they’ve disappeared, have they?,” he says, sounding unusually angry. “They’re still around, gathering darkness, trying to mess up the world again - just - just waiting for a new lord and master -” he breaks off. “Never mind,” he says, laughing awkwardly, looking embarrassed.

“Er - no - it’s okay - ” says Al, impossibly curious. Scorpius is perhaps the only person at Hogwarts who is the child of a Death Eater. His cousins talk about the War a lot, but they’re the kids of the victors. He’s always wondered…

“I - I wouldn’t have expected you to have such strong opinions on Dark Magic,” he finally bursts out, unable to stop himself.

Scorpius looks grim, but not shocked, his usual wide smile pressing itself into a thin line. “Yeah. Son of Death Eater and all. Supposed to take over the family legacy, right?”

“That’s - that’s not what I meant! - ” Albus sputters, going red, although of course that’s what he meant. Now that he thinks about it, though, Scorpius is entirely too... _ nice _ to be a Death Eater.

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause, before, seemingly unable to stand it, Scorpius breaks the silence. “I know. I know that’s not what you meant. Sorry for being pissy. My - my dad -” He looks away, staring out the arched windows as they walk through the third-floor corridor, arms folded in a slightly embarrassed gesture. The sunlight reflects off his glasses, and his hair looks almost white. He looks very old and very young at the same time, and Albus has the uncomfortable sensation of intruding upon a private moment. 

“The Dark Arts ruined my dad’s life. Ruined my family, actually. I’m not a fan.”

“...oh,” is all Albus can think to say. He wants to say, “I’m sorry,” but ends up saying, “How so?” 

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he wants to kick himself.

Scorpius looks scared. “Um - well -”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say!,” Albus says hurriedly. “I’m just being a nosy git.”

Scorpius looks relieved, and his face crinkles into a hesitant smile again. “Um - yeah - I mean, no!” He laughs. “I - I get it. I just...don’t like to talk about my family. I...don’t talk about them.”

Albus feels simultaneously touched and horrible that Scorpius would talk to him.

-x-

Al pulls on his Weasley sweater - green and white, as usual, and a little tight, because it’s from last Christmas. Nevertheless, it’s a tradition for all the cousins to wear their sweaters at every Weasley dinner. It keeps their grandma happy.

Al thinks fondly of Grandma. Maybe she’s bringing her shepherd’s pie...his stomach rumbles, and he grins at himself.

As he walks out the Slytherin common room and into the grounds, he sees his cousins and Lily up ahead, excitedly babbling. It’s always fun when Weasley dinner at Hogsmeade (each Weasley couple hosts at least one month of the year) coincides with the Hogwarts term. All the Weasley/Potter kids get “an extra Hogsmeade weekend”, although Al’s dad has warned him not to call it that - apparently, it makes people think they’re being favored, which, when Albus thinks about it,  _ is _ kind of the case. He almost calls out to everyone, before he notices Rose’s red, bushy hair flying about in the midst of the group. He grimaces. Oh, well. He’s just going to be walking to Hogsmeade alone, then.

Halfway through Hogsmeade, though, just as they cross Madam Puddifoot’s, his sister catches sight of him skulking behind them in the glass storefront of Gladrags, and turns around. Al cringes, waiting to be excoriated, but it doesn’t happen. 

“Al! You caught up! Hey, join us!” 

She skips over and pulls his arm through her elbow, grinning. “I can’t wait for Grandma’s shepherd pie.”

“So it’s confirmed, then? It’s definitely making an appearance?,” says Al, who can’t help smiling back, as he’s pulled towards the crowd of cousins.

“I have a good feeling about today,” Lily says. Al accidentally makes eye contact with Rose as they catch up. She looks startled, sniffs, and then starts a loud conversation about the Harpies’ chances this year with a bemused-looking Roxanne, who hates Quidditch.

Soon, however, they get to the Potters’ cottage in Hogsmeade, and then there are really too many people for it to be awkward anymore. Al disappears gratefully into the crowd, allowing the many stray cats who hang around 8, Wiggentree Lane, to wind around his legs in recognition. “Hello, Farquhar,” he says fondly to his favourite, a rather affectionate tabby.

“Won’t you say hello to your mum, too?,” says Ginny, coming up beside him and giving him a squeeze, which Al, after a bit of obligatory struggle, wholeheartedly returns. “How’s my Al doing?”

“I’m okay, mum,” he mumbles into her collar, breathing deeply. His mum always smells comforting. Until now, he hasn’t realized how much he has missed home. His mum strokes his hair for a bit, but then Uncle George bellows, “Ginny! Your kitchen’s on fire, but I didn’t do it!” Ginny rolls her eyes and drags Albus into the kitchen.

“Don’t deny it, Dad! We saw you!,” cries Roxanne dramatically, pointing a salad fork at her father.

“Me?!,” cries Uncle George equally dramatically, looking the picture of innocence. “No, it was you that threw that Flaming Furbizzle into the oven! Don’t you dare scapegoat me, young lady!”

“Dad!,” Roxanne gasps. “Your  _ own daughter _ \- your  _ flesh and blood _ \- you  _ gave birth to me _ !”

“Nope, that would be me,” Aunt Angelina remarks drily. “Do I need to tell you about the birds and the bees again, Roxie?”

“No, thanks,” says Roxanne hastily, and disappears.

Mum has managed to extinguish the fire during the showdown. “Lucky I took out the chicken,” she remarks to Dad, who has just joined the gathering. “Too right,” he agrees, and plucks off a piece of the chicken, escaping Mum’s indignant swat. “Ah, well, might as well start eating!,” she calls out, and various aunts and uncles and cousins crowd around the table, always hungry, in true Weasley tradition. 

Al seeks out his Grandma and Grandpa and gives them both a hug and a run-down of his term so far. 

“Hey, cuz!” Louis - one of his favourite cousins, who has been gone for a year, following in his dad's curse-breaker footsteps - has joined them, and he ruffles Al’s hair as he kisses their Grandma’s cheek. “You grew taller,” he observes, as they walk away.

“Yeah, happens when you’re gone for a year,” Al snipes back.

Louis grins. “Egypt was  _ brilliant _ , though - learned so much about curse-breaking, I love it - here, I have to show you this - “ he pulls out an amulet from under his shirt, bright amber resin, encasing...Al’s pretty sure that’s a cockroach. 

“This,” Louis says wisely, “is the Scarab of Good Fortune. It brings luck to the wearer.”

Al raises his eyebrow. “Louis,” he says, “that’s a cockroach.”

“Shut up!,” Louis splutters indignantly. “It’s a scarab beetle! You can’t tell the difference, you’ve never seen one - ”

“I’ve seen a cockroach, though, and I know what  _ that _ looks like. Here, Vic, Teddy - what’s this in Louis’ necklace?”

“It’s an  _ amulet _ , not a necklace, dimwit -”

“Uh...a cockroach?,” says Vic, squinting down at the cord her brother is holding out, scowling. 

“You need glasses, love,” says Teddy fondly, before doing a double-take when he sees Louis’ amulet. “Merlin! That is a cockroach! What’re you doing with a cockroach around your neck for, Louis?!”

“IT’S NOT A COCKROACH!”

“What’s not a cockroach?,” asks Mum interestedly. “Oh, that’s definitely a cockroach - nice, Louis. Unconventional, yet bold.” 

“Fashion in Egypt’s moved forward since Bill’s shark tooth earring, eh?,” Uncle Ron comments, peering over his sister’s shoulder.

Louis is fuming as all his relatives take turns making fun of him. Albus sniggers, and goes to fill his plate (the shepherd’s pie is, delightfully, present), settling down comfortably in front of Grandma, who, halfway through a glass of mead, is regaling Roxie and Lucy with tales of her escapades at Hogwarts.

After a dinner that has made his sweater uncomfortably tighter, Albus heads up to his room to escape all the noise. He is disgusted to find Vic and Teddy kissing on his bed, and throws them out unceremoniously. 

“Oi! You’d think he’d have more respect for his elders!,” shouts Ted indignantly, and from the suspicious lack of footsteps, Al is sure they’ve just gone into James’ room next door. 

Al snorts, but is feeling to weary to retort. He collapses on his bed, staring up at his ceiling, which his mum had enchanted with constellations when he was very little (the enchantment has worn off a bit over the years, and sometimes the stars arrange themselves into weird shapes that are definitely not constellations). He stares up, almost dozing off, and identifies the constellations one by one...this is probably why he was so good at Astronomy. Aunt Hermione was quite disappointed when he dropped it. Corona Australis...Serpens Cauda...oh, there’s Scorpius. Al smiles tiredly. What a funny coincidence...his birthday is in November...he was born under Scorpius...and here’s Scorpius on his ceiling. He makes a note to tell Scorpius - the person, not the constellation - on Tuesday -

He shifts, and his pillow falls to the ground. A yellowed envelope slides out, hitting the ground with a soft  _ whump _ . Al sits up, his heart thumping. This letter - he can’t believe he forgot about it -

He grabs for it desperately, unfolding it.  _ Fuck _ . It’s like all his aches are rushing to the surface, a well has been opened up -

_ Hey Al, _

_ I’m in France, and I wish you were here. It’s so amazing here! It’s better every year, honestly. Mum and Dad just want to laze around in the hotel, so I’m out on my own, sitting in a cafe, eating a baguette, drinking my coffee, and feeling very Parisian. The only thing that would make this better is my boyfriend sitting in front of me, so that I can tell him how cute he is in person instead of having to write it in a letter. _

_ You’re so utterly lovely, Al - I love your green eyes. I think they’d look beautiful in Paris. The city would suit you. I’ll dress you up in some nice clothes, and you’d fit right in. I would love to hold your hand, and walk you down the banks of the Seine (the river). It’s frozen over right now, but it’s wonderful in the summer. We’ll go see Muggle art at the Louvre - I know you’d feel lost, but I’ll explain it to you! _

_ I miss kissing you. _

_ Al, did you know Paris is the city of love? I can tell why - it’s very romantic, all glowing at night and with musicians. Apparently these sidewalk cafes are prime pickup territory - I’m in one right now, haha. But it’s subtle, too - not garish or loud like London. The English are pretty uncouth, really, compared to the French. _

_ I think I’d like to live here after graduation. Maybe you can join me sometime. _

_ Best, _

_ E _

_ xo _

Al reads the letter over and over again. It’s simple, casual, really - and nearly a year old at this point. But it was the last letter he got from Eustace. He didn’t communicate at all over Easter break, and when he went back to Hogwarts - 

A dull ache grows in his chest, threatening to consume him, as he reads the letter over and over again...He raises his head, and stares at the window, unseeing of the view of the back garden...Merlin, is it possible for anyone to hurt so much? 

Suddenly, he becomes aware that the frosty windowpane is reflecting something unusual. There’s Rose standing in the doorway, watching him. 

Al whips around, stuffing the letter under his thigh.

“How long have you been here?!,” he demands.

“Long enough,” she answers evasively. “What’re you reading, Al?”

“None of your business,” he mutters. He waits for her to go away, but she doesn’t budge.

“Is it the France letter?,” she asks, folding her arms. 

Albus remembers with a shock that Rose has seen this letter. When Eustace sent it, he was still talking to her. It hits him what a long time ago that was, and what a pathetic fool he is, crying over a year-old letter.

“None of your business,” he repeats again, getting up to find a safer place for this precious letter. He bends down, shoving the letter into his bottom-most desk drawer; and then changes his mind, slipping it into his pocket. 

“That letter was  _ awful _ ! I mean - why are you upset over someone who clearly didn’t like you - ”

“What?!,” Albus says incredulously, not quite believing it. He strides up to Rose, who jumps away, startled. “He liked me, okay! Maybe he cheated in the end - but he  _ liked _ me! He really, really did! And I had that for a moment, and it sucks that it’s gone! Why  _ can’t _ I be upset?!,” he bellows right into her face. They’re lucky that his yelling is drowned out by an uproarious wave of laughter downstairs.

Rose gazes at him with an infuriatingly sympathetic and concerned expression. “I’m not - you can - ” she begins, but Albus shoves past her, furious at her for finding him, for talking to him, for daring to be sympathetic.

-x-

_ I love your green eyes. I think they’d look beautiful in Paris. _

_ I would love to hold your hand, and walk you down the banks of the Seine  _

_ Maybe you can join me sometime. _

Is Eustace in Paris right now?, Al wonders, gazing at the letter in the pale morning light filtering into his window as the sun slowly rises. Is that where he went? After ripping out Al’s heart and stomping on it for good measure? He never even said anything, after that day. 

Al squeezes his eyes shut as he considers the painful memory of bursting in on Eustace Davies and Clara Newcombe snogging in Eustace’s dorm. He had stood there, clutching a clotted cream - Eustace’s favourite dessert - ready to congratulate his boyfriend on his Apparition test, as the two detached themselves and stared at Albus. 

He had turned and fled, mute, ears ringing. And Eustace had simply ignored Al for the rest of term - and left - and never even written. 

It was as if they’d never dated in the first place. 

Al breathes, and rolls over, the sunlight making his tired eyelids burn.

Perhaps it was his own fault, though. Perhaps he should have sought out Eustace and assured him that he wasn’t hurt, that he knew it didn’t mean anything, that they could definitely get back together -

But he  _ had _ been hurt. He had been devastated, in fact. 

But what if Eustace hadn’t known that? What if he thought he was just a casual relationship for Al? What if he felt the same way Al was feeling - longing to get back together - wishing things hadn’t gone the way they had - and everyone made mistakes -

The heavy ache in his chest is matched by the anxious thoughts roiling about in his head. Al rolls out of bed, grabbing a sheet of parchment from the stack he had put on his nightstand the night before. It is time to act. 

_ Dear Eustace, _ he begins.  _ It’s been a while, but I wanted to get in touch… _

-x-

Al bangs open the heavy wooden door, panting and shivering slightly, letter clutched tightly in his hand. He had forgotten his gloves and hat in his mad, feverish dash from the Slytherin dungeons.

“What the fuck!”

He ignores the fully-clad student attaching a letter to a small Scops owl, heading over to one of the school tawnies, whipping out his letter, scrabbling around the boxes on the windowsill for a leather cord -

“Al?,” the voice enquires curiously.

Shit.

He turns cautiously, attempting to hide the letter behind his back.

“Hi, Rose,” he attempts to say evenly, but it comes out through a cough, as he’s still panting.

They stare at each other with faint hostility, Rose’s brown eyes cold. “Er - mailing James?,” she asks, after an awkward pause, and Al wonders blankly why she’d ask that before realizing that is the only person he  _ could _ realistically be mailing, given that his parents live right here.

“Ah - yes,” he responds curtly, glad for the out, but he’s taken too long to respond. Rose is looking suspicious.

“So you wouldn’t mind if I took a look at the letter, then,” she says loudly. Before Al can stop her, she is striding over and snatching the letter out of his hand, scanning the address. “Ha! I knew it!,” she shouts, suddenly sounding a lot like her dad, despite the clipped London accent. “You’re such an arse, Al -”

“What!,” Al gasps. “ _ I’m _ the arse - you’re the one who just stole my private correspondence - ”

“For your own good!,” she shrieks. “I’m tired of you mooning about over your stupid ex!”

Al just gazes at her, his jaw slack with disbelief. 

“Fuck off, Rose.”

He turns to leave, filled with righteous fury and indignation.  _ How  _ dare _ she? My own good! “Mooning about,” as though she knows - _

A hand closes around his wrist, and he turns back, baffled. “ _ What _ the hell, Rose - ”

“I’m  _ tired _ of you ignoring me,” Rose says. She’s still angry, but her voice breaks. “You’re my  _ best friend _ , Al. You’ve always been, and you know what? Despite your arseholery, you still are! I don’t have anybody else who I talk to about my shit, and I know you don’t either! And I need to talk. So you’re going to listen, now, and after I’m done, you can go on being angry at me, but for the next two minutes - I’m talking.”

“Like hell you are - ” Al scoffs, but she goes on as if he hasn’t spoken.

“Davies,” she says, “was your first boyfriend. He was handsome, older, charming, popular - really everything you could  _ want _ in a boyfriend. Three months before that, you’d told me - the first person you told - that you’re gay. When Davies asked you out - actually, no, he never did that, he just kissed you - you were bowled over that the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, Head Boy, had asked  _ you _ out.” She draws a breath, but Al doesn’t move, arrested at this strange narration of his relationship from an outsider’s eyes.

“You started spending ALL your time with him. You ignored me. Okay, fine. I’m sure that happens whenever anybody gets their first boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I was happy for you. You latched onto him, skiving class, going to his Quidditch practices, sneaking off to Hogsmeade - yeah, I know where you went - disappearing for hours at a time. Did it ever occur to you, though,” and Rose draws herself up to her full height, her voice becoming fierce and strident, “that he  _ never _ waved to you at his Quidditch practices? He acted like you weren’t there! That he  _ never _ hung out with you  _ in _ Hogwarts? He never asked you to sit with him at meals! He never - like - took you to Hogsmeade, even! I mean, I may not know much about dating, Al, but  _ everyone _ goes to Madam Puddifoot’s at  _ least _ once!” 

“He had to keep it a secret!,” Al interjects impatiently. “You  _ know _ that - his parents, they - ”

“Bollocks!,” Rose shrieks, and there is a sudden flurry of frightened owls. “I  _ saw _ him this summer, in Diagon Alley, with some stupid guy - ” Al’s stomach drops, and suddenly he’s cold in a different way “ - and he was with his parents! And they were perfectly fine with it!”

“And that’s not all!,” she goes on, apparently not finished. “If it was  _ just _ about keeping it a secret - whatever - but the things he said to you! Bloody hell! That letter, from France! I mean, you wrote him a five-page opus and he responded with - with - a  _ note _ ! I wanted to Bat-Bogey him when I saw it! ‘I’ll dress you up in some nice clothes’ - like you don’t dress just fine! ‘I’m at a  _ sidewalk cafe _ , it’s a  _ prime pickup spot _ !’ - just to make you feel bad! Like he was going to run off with somebody else any minute! He was always making these snide remarks - I mean, it wasn’t just you, he was a dick to everyone - but at least he could have been nice to his  _ boyfriend _ \- he always pointed out all these things about you that were apparently  _ wrong _ or  _ not good enough _ \- laughing at you on a broom, and judging you for not getting Prefect - when you’re a perfectly fine and decent human being! Better than him, anyway! Any guy would be lucky to have you, Al, and I am honestly  _ furious _ that you have spent the past  _ year  _ moping, fought with  _ me _ , and failed your  _ OWLs _ , over that - that - piece of dung!”

Al gapes.

“I hope you realize that you haven’t talked to me in a  _ year _ . Just because I told you he wasn’t good for you, last Christmas. You called me  _ homophobic _ .”

Al flushes at the memory of last year’s fight-to-end-all-fights with Rose, in his Burrow bedroom. He’d never screamed that loudly before. He’d called her a lot of names. Had “homophobic” been one of them? He feels ashamed - she was the first person -

“I felt so terrible when you called me that, I felt so ashamed,” she continues. Rose’s eyes are shining, and her nose is red - she sniffles audibly. “I really questioned myself - did I just not like your relationship with Davies because it was the first one I’d ever seen between two guys? Because I had never known you were gay before? But I thought about it - and it wasn’t. It really wasn’t homophobia. I know I don’t get to tell you that, but I need to. This has gone on too long. There are so many guys in Hogwarts you could date, and I would be perfectly happy. I just couldn’t see my best cousin - my best friend - being with someone who - who treated him like  _ shit _ .” 

She is crying properly now, tears streaming down her face, as she adds, “You know, there are things happening in  _ my _ life too. And it would have been nice to have you around. I’ve been really alone this entire year, Albus. I miss you, however much of an arse you have been to me. And you have been an arse - to everyone, really, especially this summer - and you should know that.”

She finishes, and throws his letter back at him, and it flumps uselessly onto the droppings-strewn floor. She stands there, looking frightened yet determined for a few moments, before shaking her head and scurrying out of the Owlery. 

She’s forgotten to post her letter, and Al, unthinking, crosses the room and ties it - addressed to  _ Hermione & Ron Granger-Weasley, 17 Wimsick Alley, London _ \- to their tiny Scops owl, Pigwidgeon III. He watches Pig III fly off, wings beating frantically against the buffeting winds.

He stands there for a long time, staring at the mountains, unmindful of the cold, turning Rose’s words over and over in his head, as a slow trickle of dread and guilt and painful realization and pain pools in his chest. His letter lies forgotten on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. We all need more Scorbus in our lives. Message me, follow me on tumblr (@chashmishhhh), comment! I love comments :)


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